


Beautiful Minds Outtakes 2: The Care & Feeding of Goldfish

by Soledad



Series: Beautiful Minds [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Ninja Butler Ianto, Outtakes, beautiful minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 00:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7459282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time: the famous reunion scene, with a mighty twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Minds Outtakes 2: The Care & Feeding of Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> These Season 3 AU one-shots aren’t written in chronological order. They sometimes overlap, sometimes tell the same events from different POVs, sometimes even the events themselves are a bit different. Everything is still set in the BM’verse, with all that it entails, but I do use some of the original dialogue from the episodes. Reading my story “Convergences” might help to understand the AU aspects better.
> 
> This particular story is set during “The Empty Hearse”. Obviously.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
OUTTAKES 02 – THE CARE AND FEEDING OF GOLDFISH

“I think I’ll surprise John,” Sherlock announces, buttoning his suit jacket and checking his appearance in the mirror in Mycroft’s office. The one in the Holmes country house on the outskirts of London, not the one in Whitehall, of course. “He’ll be delighted!”

Mycroft, setting aside the – depressingly thin – folder on the planned terrorist attack against London rises from his chair and smiles cynically. “You think so?”

Sherlock ignores him because really, how could John not be delighted to have him back? He’s been gone for two years”

“I think I’ll pop into Baker Street,” he continues breezily. “Who knows – jump out of a cake.”

“Baker Street?” Mycroft echoes, frowning. “He isn’t there any more.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock stares at his brother in genuine surprise.

Mycroft shrugs. “Why _would_ he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.”

“ _What_ life?” Sherlock asks arrogantly. “I’ve been away.”

Mycroft visibly suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “It might surprise you, dear brother, but John has actually other interests than chasing after you all across London. Being a doctor is one of them. Which is why he, Dr Harper and Dr Jones – you do remember Martha Jones, I presume – have opened a shared practice in Queen Anne Street. Soon thereafter John moved out of 221B and rented a small flat near the practice. Life goes on, brother mine, and if you’re not watchful, you can easily be left behind.”

Sherlock doesn’t really listen to his brother’s platitudes. His mind is already occupied with various sceneries how he could best surprise John.

“Where’s he going to be tonight?” he demands.

Mycroft looks at him with a blank face. “How would _I_ know?”

“You _always_ know,” Sherlock points out, and Mycroft gives in with a sigh. Sometimes, when Sherlock is particularly unreasonable, it’s just easier to humour him.

“Very well,” he says. “He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion... though I prefer the 2001,” he adds thoughtfully. Good wine is one of the few indulgences he still allows himself. Occasionally.

“The _Landmark Hotel_?” Sherlock asks. 

He knows the place, too; probably from a case, as he considers everything concerning eating or drinking as irrelevant. Mycroft simply nods. 

“I think maybe I’ll just drop by,” Sherlock muses and Mycroft stiffens involuntarily because _that_ is a disaster of epic proportions waiting to happen. Unlike Sherlock, he’s well aware of the importance of this specific day and knows that Sherlock blundering in, freshly risen from the death, would ruin it spectacularly.

“You know,” he says slowly, carefully, “it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.”

“No it isn’t,” Sherlock replies in utter self-confidence.

Then he demands his coat, which Ianto brings in and holds up for him. Sherlock grins in delight, and slides his arms into the sleeves as Ianto lifts the coat into position with practiced ease. He often does the same for Mycroft without being asked, which is nice. It’s like having a valet like in old times.

It’s actually surprising that he’d be willing to do this for _Sherlock_ , who isn’t his favourite person, Mycroft may not be able to acknowledge Ianto publicly, for several very good reasons, but Ianto is a loyal son nonetheless and sides with his father in the long-ongoing sibling rivalry between the Holmes brothers.

Not that Sherlock would know it. As proud as he is of his unique powers of observance, the world’s only consulting detective has failed to realise so far that Ianto Jones is more than just one of Mycroft’s _minions_ , as he calls them. Granted, Ianto used to work for the Torchwood Institute until the terrorist bombing of Canary Wharf, but still, it has been six… almost seven years by now. Mycroft is waiting with unholy glee for realisation to hit his little brother like a brick wall one day.

“Can you keep an eye on him tonight? He asks and Ianto nods.

“The barista of the _Landmark Hotel_ still owes me a favour.”

Given Ianto’s unique gift to blend into the background, he’ll only need a tuxedo and a bow tie to keep Sherlock from spotting him. Mycroft feels some of the tension dissipate. He knows he can count on Ianto to keep the damage to a minimum.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The _Landmark London Hotel_ on Marylebone Road – accidentally a mere stone's throw from Baker Street – is a very distinctive place indeed. On the outside, it still very much looks as it did when opened as a Victorian railway hotel, with the beautiful glass and wrought iron structure arching over the southern entrance that directly faces onto Marylebone Road. 

The inside, however, has been redecorated in the early 1922s, the restaurant and bar featuring Art Deco styling and a unique two-storey floor plan. The restaurant itself is situated on the lower level, while the bar occupies a mezzanine balcony. It is there where Ianto has his vantage point, behind the coffee machine; a vantage point that offers him an excellent view on the restaurant.

The establishment is run by a talented French chef, and though the personnel are exclusively English, they are all fluent in French and answer to French names at work. The place also has a dress code, both for patrons _and_ personnel, but that’s not a problem for Ianto; he does _formal_ exceedingly well… and not just because his Tad used to be a master tailor, as he’d once thought. Now he suspects it has to be somehow genetic with Holmeses.

The barista who owes him a favour (well, several favours, in fact) for having taught him how to operate the vintage Fraema, was only happy to take the evening off and let Ianto step into his place. Monsieur Dubois, who owes _Mycroft_ several favours, pretended not to have taken any notice. 

So Ianto is hovering near the coffee machine, with one eye switching to and fro between the two entrances to spot Sherlock whenever he chooses to show up, and the other one on John Watson, who’s sitting alone at a table, clad in his best suit. He has a glass of water in front of him and seems a bit anxious… a sentiment Ianto knows the reason for.

Surveillance of 221B has picked up John’s recent visit to Mrs Hudson. He mentioned to his former landlady that he’ll propose tonight… presumably not an easy thing for him. John Watson isn’t shy as a rule, but when something is _truly_ important for him, he can get the jitters.

From his high vantage point Ianto watches with a nostalgic little smile as Dr Watson reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a small red velvet box. Opening it, he looks at the three-stone diamond ring inside, then closes the box and puts it on the table in front of him. That little gesture brings back bittersweet memories…

Where he’s standing, near the Fraema, Ianto can’t actually _see_ the ring. But he knows (because _Mycroft_ knows) that the middle stone is quartz, rather than an actual diamond, and that the ring once belonged to Dr Watson’s grandmother. It was, at one point, given to Clara, Harriet Watson’s wife, who returned it when the marriage broke up because of Harry’s drinking habit. The ring then was put in safe storage at the bank because Harry didn’t want to be reminded of her failed marriage.

There was a big (and rather ugly) fight over the same ring between Dr Watson and his sister who, for some reason, never accepted John’s choice of a future wife. In the end, John decided to claim the ring anyway; in Ianto’s opinion it was a smart move, as it would prevent Harry from showing up at the wedding, getting drunk and making a scene.

 _If_ there will be a wedding in the first place, that is. Were Ianto a woman, he’d take offence that John didn’t find the time to get the ring cleaned; or it didn’t even occur to him. He hopes for John’s sake that not everyone is as obsessed with detail as he is.

There’s some movement at the southern entrance; Ianto spots Sherlock walk in, handing his Belstaff to a member of the staff. Antoine, the _maître d’_ approaches him to offer his assistance; Sherlock tells him something, at which Antoine fishes his phone out of his pocket, looks at the screen and hurries away. Sherlock smiles smugly to himself.

Ianto doesn’t share the deduction skills of his father and uncle (not in the same extent anyway), but he was told that Antoine’s wife is shortly before giving birth and concludes that her contractions must have started. Which Sherlock most likely has just deduced by the way Antoine binds his shoelaces or the brand of product he’s put into his hair or by some other, equally unrelated fact. Both he and Mycroft are freakishly good at such things and Ianto has given up years ago to compete with them. He’s quite observant for an average bloke but not even close to the Holmesian genius level of observation.

On the other hand, he actually does have a _life_ , whenever he can make his father back off a bit, which, in his opinion, more than makes up for that shortcoming.

He watches with tolerant amusement as Sherlock cons his way across the restaurant, collecting the necessary items to create an – admittedly crude – disguise and is now trying to get Dr Watson’s attention while speaking to him with a fake French accent. A rather horrible one at that, which is really funny, because Ianto knows that the Holmes brothers practically grew up with the language, due to the insistence of their maternal grandmother.

What’s even funnier is the fact that Dr Watson doesn’t even _look_ at the man he thinks is the wine waiter. His mind is preoccupied with the task before him, and the annoyance on Sherlock’s face is a thing of beauty.

Sherlock walks away with the wine list, silently fuming under his breath. Dr Watson fidgets with the box, turning it this way and that in an attempt to make it look perfectly placed and blows out a nervous breath. Ianto can relate. He was every bit this nervous before he’d ask Lisa to marry him… only that he never actually came to ask the question. Their dinner date was scheduled for the very day on which the Toclafane bombed Torchwood Tower. Lisa lived – well, _existed_ – for less than a year after that; spent the last months in coma of which she didn’t wake up again.

Another movement, this time at the northern entrance, catches Ianto’s attention, and he firmly pushes the painful memories back to their place. Dr Watson catches it, too, and his expression brightens considerably, which is understandable. Because at this very moment Toshiko enters the restaurant and slowly descends the stairs from the mezzanine, radiantly beautiful in her deep purple, shoulder free tea dress, the full skirt of which bells out around her knees. She has a black lace shawl wrapped around her bare shoulders, her hair is put up in a French twist that makes her graceful neck appear even longer, and she wears black velvet pumps with low heels, mindful of John’s short stature.

She smiles that sweet, shy smile of hers as she pats John’s shoulder before walking round to her own seat.

“Sorry that took so long,” she apologises. Her voice is low-pitched, but they are almost directly under Ianto’s position, so he can still hear it. “Restoring this particular batch of data proves harder than any of us has expected.”

Like Ianto, she’s still working on the reconstruction of the scientific database of the Torchwood Institute that’s been badly damaged by the bombing of the Tower. There existed copies of the older stuff, of course, but some of the current research has been lost and the data had to be put together again from the personal notes of the scientists, most of whom were killed by the bombing. Since Toshiko was part of the actual research where computer science was considered, her scientific diary turned out invaluable, but, paradoxically, that makes the data restoration painstakingly slow. They can’t afford any mistakes.

John waves off her apology. He’s a doctor; he has his own fair share of long working hours. He snatches the box off the table and shoves it back into his pocket. If Toshiko has noticed it – and she’s _almost_ as observant as a Holmes – she doesn’t make any comment… not yet. She just sits down and smiles at him.

“Are you all right?” she asks gently.

“Yeah, yeah,” John waves with one hand nervously while gazing at her with a completely besotted look on his face. “Me? Fine. I am fine.”

Toshiko laughs quietly and gives his appearance a look full of appreciation. “Yeah, you _do_ look fine today. Now then, what did you want to ask me?”

John’s smile fades a bit and now he looks even more nervous than before... if that’s possible at all. He goes for a small discretion to delay the inevitable.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

“A dry Martini with ice and lemon, later on, but it can wait,” Toshiko replies automatically, even though the _real_ wine waiter will probably be outraged by the mere idea of ordering such a drink in a French restaurant. “I want to hear first what you have to say.”

“Right,” John briefly looks away, clears his throat. “Er, so… Toshiko. Listen, erm... I know it hasn’t been long... I mean, I know we have known each other for more than three years... But it was different at first, and now…” he looks down, clearly struggling. 

Toshiko smiles at him encouragingly. “Go on,” she says, as of she knew what’s coming. Perhaps she does. On her own right, she’s nothing short a genius, either.

John clears his throat again. “Yes, I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and having you as a friend…” he looks at her for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, having you as a friend has been the best thing that could have possibly happened, after… after Sherlock…”

“I agree,” Toshiko says simply. Her voice is soft and Ianto has to strain his ears to understand, but when he does, he’s every bit as surprised as the good doctor, who blinks several times.

“Sorry, what?” John asks, not quite ready to believe his own ears.

Toshiko smiles at him, albeit a bit sadly. 

“I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you after Sherlock was… gone,” she clarifies. “Or _before_ that. What other woman could have lived with his spectre hovering above her head all the time?”

The doctor is still a bit shocked but understanding is also dawning on his face. “Well, no. That’s, um… to be honest, I always wondered how you could do it.”

Toshiko shrugs elegantly. “You forget that I’ve known him longer than you. A lot longer. I _worked_ with him, long before you’d show up; what’s more, I worked for his _brother_. I knew what I was doing.”

“Right. Right, um,” the doctor pauses, then looks at her. He clears his throat. “So... if you’ll have me, Toshiko, could you see your way, um...”

He still can’t quite get out the actual question. Toshiko watches him with a patient smile. He clears his throat again and gives it another try. “...if you could see your way to...”

Just when he’s nearly managed to finally ask, Sherlock glides over to the table, still with the glasses he’s pilfered from another guest, the ridiculous fake moustache he’s painted on his face with the stolen eye-liner and the ridiculous fake accent, but now carrying a bottle of champagne which he shows to the doctor.

“Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking.”

The doctor’s eyes are still locked on Toshiko, whose smile suddenly freezes. She can’t see Sherlock, who’s standing behind her back, but – unlike John, who’s too preoccupied – she clearly recognises his voice. She just can’t quite believe it… and doesn’t dare to turn around and check.

“It has all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new,” Sherlock continues, still with that fake French accent, and Toshiko’s become eerily quiet, all colour leaving her face.

“No, sorry, not now, please,” John says impatiently; he’s the only one still oblivious of what’s happening. But once Sherlock’s on a roll, he isn’t easily stopped.

“Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers,” he goes on unerringly, “suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend.”

“No, look, seriously,” John is getting pissed by the interruption of what’s probably the most important moment of his life. “Could you just...”

He trails off as he finally looks up in annoyance to meet the supposed waiter’s eyes, who’s taken off his glasses. And then he stares. And stares. Unlike Toshiko, who’s white like a sheet, his face is becoming an alarming shade of red… almost purple. The fact that he’s stopped breathing might have to do something with _that_.

Toshiko reaches across the table and squeezes his hand encouragingly.

“John?” she asks, her tone infinitely gentle, and John might actually calm down a little, would Sherlock not choose this very moment for a flippant remark.

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo,” he says airily. “Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters.”

Standing almost directly above them, Ianto winces, because this was definitely the wrong thing to say, even though he can’t quite suppress a noise that’s half a snort and half a chuckle, as Sherlock is certainly right. All three have known him for years, to various degrees, and yet all three have failed to spot him so far. Even Sherlock-I’m-the-only-one-who-truly-observes-Holmes.

In the meantime John has turned his head to Toshiko and his eyes start to fill with tears. He ducks his head for a moment, then he rises shakily to his feet. 

Toshiko watches him in obvious concern. “John, are you all right?”

John looks down at the table breathing heavily.

“No,” he says in a strained, strangely emotionless voice that is in such contrast to the still purplish colour of his face. “No, I’m most definitely _not_ all right.”

Sherlock makes an aborted effort to proffer his hand to John to shake it, seeming uncharacteristically shy. John is still staring at the table, clearly in shock. Toshiko stands and goes around the table to lay an arm around his slumped shoulders.

“John, what is it? What?” She’s not asking about what’s just happened. She’s asking about his mental state. But Sherlock, in his ignorance, can’t understand that.

“Well,” he says a little awkwardly, managing to misread the personal dynamics completely, “the short version is: Not Dead.”

 _But you might be in a moment if you don’t shut up or don’t apologise – repeatedly and profoundly_ , Ianto thinks, equally concerned for the good doctor and for his uncle. Because John finally does look up; stares, in fact, straight into the face of his supposedly dead best friend, his face full of pain, shock and growing anger. And Ianto, one of the only twenty-seven survivors of the bombing of Canary Wharf (out of over eight hundred), knows from first-hand experience how dangerous a PTDS-patient out of control can be.

He reaches into his pocket for the taser and prepares to jump over the railing if he has to. His father wouldn’t appreciate if Dr Watson broke Sherlock’s neck in a fit of uncontrolled rage. As a trained soldier and experienced war veteran, he _could_ do it, without actually meaning to. In a sate of extreme emotional stress, he _might_ do it, without actually intending to.

Toshiko appears to have the same concerns because she is practically hanging on John’s arm with both hands, using her full weight… not that _that_ would be much. But it seems to ground John a bit… for the time being.

Sherlock _finally_ begins to understand that the whole situation is ‘a bit not good’ and looks a little guilty.

“Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know,” he laughs nervously. “Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will.”

And then Ianto would have to stop _Toshiko_ from killing him. He begins to realise that keeping people from killing Sherlock might be harder than he imagined. And that’s just the people who can be considered _friends_. Ianto suddenly feels very sorry for his father. How Mycroft manages to run the government _and_ keep Sherlock alive is beyond him.

“But in my defence, it was very funny.” Sherlock continues, not meeting his best – correction, only – friend’s eyes, which is probably for the best because John’s gaze is slowly turning murderous... which Sherlock is just a little bit late to realise.

“Okay,” he allows with a nervous little smile, “it’s not a great defence.”

Toshiko stares at him with wide, shocked eyes. “Oh, no! It can’t be _you_!”

Sherlock gives her a quick, impatient glance.

“Oh, yes!” he is dismissing her with that very answer as completely irrelevant.

“Oh, my God!” Toshiko still can’t quite believe it.

“Not quite,” Sherlock replies. The addition _but not far from it_ hangs unspoken between them in the air. 

Toshiko shakes her head in disbelief. “But you… you died. You jumped off a roof.”

“No,” Sherlock replies, his impatience with her growing. 

He can’t understand why is she still there, why is she inserting herself between him and John. All right, she is – _was_? – their next-door neighbour, living in 221C for years as she has, but that doesn’t give her the right to intervene with his and John’s reunion. 

Or to glare at him so appalled.

“You’re dead!” she repeats.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at such stupidity. She’s supposed to be a genius, at least in her own field of expertise, she should be able to accept the simple facts of life.

“No,” he replies. “I’m quite sure. I checked. Excuse me.”

He picks up a napkin from the table, dips it into John’s glass of water and starts to rub off the fake moustache. In the process, he meets John’s furious gaze and asks, trying to sound nonchalant, “Does, er, does yours rub off, too?”

The attempt fails miserably, and John doesn’t seem to find the forced joke the least bit funny, if the tight smile that he directs at Sherlock is any indication.

Toshiko, in the meantime, has pulled herself together. She’s still clutching to John’s arm, trying to keep him in place in case all that suppressed grief and anger might manifest itself in a spectacular explosion, and she eyes Sherlock with cold, collected anger.

“You stupid, insensitive git,” she says, her voice low and furious. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him? He was _broken_! There were times – many times – I was afraid he wouldn’t make it through the day. Thank God he was always stronger than the despair, but… no, you clearly haven’t got a clue. You never had, did you?”

Sherlock glares at her, because what gives her the right to raise any accusations, really; but then he turns back to John, looks down at him nervously.

“Okay, John, I’m suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology…”

It’s not the best attempts to smooth John’s feathers but Ianto can at least give the man some brownie points for trying. John clearly doesn’t share his opinion, though, because he clenches his left hand – his traitorously trembling left hand – and slams his fist down onto the table, hunching over it. 

Toshiko forgets about Sherlock at once, clings to John’s arm for dear life, tries to calm him down. “All right, just ... John? Just keep your calm, okay?”

But John doesn’t look like someone who’d be able to keep his calm. He takes a deep, shaky breath... then another one… and another one, before he can collect himself to as much as look up to Sherlock.

“Two years,” he whispers; then he trails off, shakes his head, breathing heavily again before starting to straighten up.

“Two years,” he repeats, still in a tight whisper and slumps down over his hands again. Sherlock has the decency to look awkward. After a moment, John glances up at him again.

“I thought...” he starts anew but is unable to continue and gestures helplessly. Toshiko pats his arm, smiles with gentle understanding and tries to make him sit down, to calm him down. But John shakes her hand off, straightens and turns back to Sherlock.

“I thought ... you were dead,” he breathes rapidly and shallowly, his face begins to turn red with anger again. “And you let me grieve, hmmm? How could you do that?” he asks softly but furiously. “How?”

“Wait,” Sherlock interrupts as John’s breathing becomes more intense. “Before you do anything that you might regret...” he trails off for a moment because John’s expression clearly suggests ‘ _What makes you think I will regret?_’, but then gathers his courage again. “Just let me ask one question.”

John looks at him expectantly, even though his eyes are still full of fury. Sherlock giggles nervously as he gestures towards his own top lip. “Are you really gonna keep that?”

Ianto is already hurling himself over the railing when John, unhindered by Toshiko, who tries to hold him back with all her might, grabs Sherlock’s lapels and pushes him back across the floor. After a few yards Sherlock loses his footing and they both fall to the floor, John on top of Sherlock and trying to throttle him.

Ianto lands on his feet, breaks John’s grip on Sherlock’s throat and wrestles the doctor’s arm behind his back. John might be a battle-hardened soldier, with his reflexes still mostly intact, but Ianto has the advantage of height and weight, and he’s stronger than his fancy suits would make one believe. Plus, he’s been thoroughly trained by his father’s security detail and has picked up a trick or two from the late Captain Harkness. He manages to immobilise the enraged doctor without as much as breaking a sweat and gives Sherlock, who’s fingering his neck with a pained expression, an icy look.

“I believe it would be better if we moved this discussion to a more suitable location,” he says. “Dr Sato, if you’d go forward, a car’s waiting at the northern entrance. Take Dr Watson with you. I’ll see that Mr Holmes follows and pay your bill.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Forty minutes later they’re all at _Angelo’s_ , sitting at Sherlock’s usual table. Angelo has come and gone, having put his best wine on the table – _on the house, Sherlock, as always_ – and having celebrated a tearful reunion with Sherlock, who’s wearing his coat again, his fingers steepled in front of him.

John and Toshiko are sitting side by side opposite him holding hands; John’s is clenched almost painfully around Toshiko’s. Ianto is standing a few steps away, his arms folded, watching the scene calmly. For the last fifteen minutes Sherlock has been trying to explain how he faked his death two years previously, describing scenario after possible scenario in a for him rather uncharacteristically disjointed manner.

After a while John interrupts. “You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick sometimes.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock looses his track due to the interruption.

“I don’t care _how_ you faked it, Sherlock,” John explains in a tightly controlled voice. “I wanna know _why_.”

“ _Why_?” Sherlock repeats, completely, honestly bewildered. “Because Moriarty had to be stopped.”

John’s expression darkens considerably and Ianto clears his throat. “Mr Holmes, I don’t think _that_ ’s what Dr Watson means.”

Sherlock frowns; then his face brightens as realisation dawns.

“Oh. ‘Why’ as in...” He points his finger in John’s direction. John nods. “I see. Yes. ‘Why?’ That’s a little more difficult to explain.”

“I’ve got all night,” John replies darkly and crosses his arms. Sherlock clears his throat and avoids his direct gaze.

“Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft’s idea,” he admits.

“Oh, so it’s your brother’s plan?” John asks coldly.

“That actually makes sense,” Toshiko says slowly, her voice equally cold. “He would have needed a confidant; and neither of _us_ would have been ruthless enough to be included,” she trails off and looks at Ianto icily. “Did _you_ know?”

Ianto decides for brutal honesty. “Of course. I acted as the long arm of Mr Holmes; you know that field work is no longer an option for him, under normal circumstances. And whom else could he have trusted with this?”

Toshiko nods in resigned understanding. Unlike John – or even Sherlock, for that matter – she _does_ know that Ianto is Mycroft’s son. She’s figured it out years ago but kept the secret… for her own safety.

John, in his blissful ignorance, doesn’t even begin to think about the true reason why Mycroft’s _ninja butler_ , as Sherlock likes to call the young Welshman, would be involved in such a confidential action. He’s only met Ianto a couple of times and overlooked him as part of the furniture… like everyone else. Besides, he has other questions at the moment.

“But _he_ was the only one, right?” he turns back to Sherlock, pointing at Ianto. “The only one who knew?”

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly. He seems to have a hard time to force the admission out. “Couple of others.”

John lowers his head in defeat and Ianto finds it necessary to intervene again. He likes the good doctor and knows that Sherlock would be lost without John. Now that he’s tasted friendship, he won’t be able to live without it as he did before.

“It was a very elaborate plan, Dr Watson,” he explains gently. “I couldn’t have done it all on my own. There were as many as thirteen possible outcomes of that particular confrontation on the roof, and we had to be prepared for each and every one.”

“Who else?” John whispers in near-despair. He ignores Ianto completely, looking at Sherlock. “Who else knew?” Sherlock hesitates, and so John repeats his question, his tone increasingly furious. “ _Who_?”

“Molly,” Sherlock finally admits, and John’s expression becomes so thunderous that Toshiko clutches his arm again to hold him back. Not hat she wouldn’t think that Sherlock deserved to be punched in the face, but she knows John would be miserable afterwards.

“ _Molly_?” John repeats incredulously, because the thought that Sherlock would trust Molly, of all people – Molly, whom he always treated like shit, used her infatuation with him to get what he wanted – but not _him_ hurts more than he’d have expected.

“…and some of my homeless network, and that’s all,” Sherlock finishes hurriedly with what’s supposed be a disarming smile but comes out like a nervous (and, frankly, rather idiotic) grin.

“Okay,” John sits up a little, gently removes Toshiko’s fingers from his upper arm and turns to Sherlock again. “Okay. So just your brother, and his ninja butler, and Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps. I feel much better now, thanks.”

Sherlock chuckles nervously. “No! Twenty-five at most.”

This time Ianto isn’t quick enough to stop John’s fist from flying across the table and punching Sherlock straight in the smugly smiling face.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Angelo isn’t fond of fistfights taking place in his restaurant – especially if the miraculously resurrected Sherlock is the one on the receiving end. It’s only due to Ianto’s interference that he doesn’t call the police; but they get thrown out of the restaurant and, in the lack of any better idea, relocate to _Speedy’s_. At least there Sherlock is close to home; and Mr Chatterjee, the owner, is deeply enough in their debt to turn a blind eye on everything, as long as they don’t demolish the furniture.

The café is almost empty at this late hour, right before closing, and Mr Chatterjee discretely retreats into the background to start packing up the rests and to fill the dishwasher for the last time. The waiters have already left. John and Toshiko stand leaning with their backs against the counter, both looking strangely out of place in their best garb. This was supposed to be one of life’s rare magic moments for them – until Sherlock blundered into it and ruined it.

Sherlock takes off his coat so that he won’t get blood on the lapels. He is holding a paper napkin to a cut on his lower lip. He looks at the blood on the napkin, wincing, then presses it to his lip again. John might be small, but he has a mean right hook. Ianto keeps his – short – distance, melding with the background as always, in the position of the beholder.

John stares at the floor under his feet, refusing to look at Sherlock.

“One word, Sherlock,” he grinds out. “That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive.”

Sherlock, too, is unable to make eye contact. “I’ve nearly been in contact so many times,” he murmurs; John laughs disbelievingly. “But I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet.”

“ _What_?” John’s head jerks upward and he glares at his friend in disbelief. Sherlock shrugs.

“Well, you’re not the best actor, you know. You might have slipped, and it was crucial that no-one would suspect anything.” 

John turns around and now glares him directly in the face. “Oh, so this is _my_ fault?”

“Who said anything about fault?” Sherlock replies defensively. “It’s just so that your poker face is lousy; you wouldn’t be able to pretend that you were grieving, and it _had_ to be a genuine reaction.”

“ _Genuine_ ,” John repeats, his voice low and dangerous.

Sherlock nods. “Yes, of course. Lives depended on it; including yours.”

“I see,” John is eerily calm now, it’s his combat face, and it’s more frightening than any temper tantrum he could be throwing. “So you just decided to let me grieve for real, hmmm? To make things appear more _genuine_ , is it? In fact, you even _counted_ on my _genuine_ reaction for your master plan to work, yes?”

Sherlock blinks, confused by what seems to be sudden understanding from John’s side.

“Well… yes?” he says, a bit uncertainly, and that is the moment when John exploded into his face.

“Why am I the only one who thinks that this is _wrong_ – the only one reacting like a human being?” his voice is raising steadily, and by the time he reaches the end of the sentence, he’s shouting.

Sherlock winces. “Over-reacting,” he corrects.

“Over-reacting?!” The doctor is practically yelling now, despite Toshiko’s efforts to calm him down. “So you fake your own death, let me grieve for two bloody years, and then you waltz in ’ere large as bloody life, but I’m not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it’s a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!”

“Shut up, John!” Sherlock yells back. “I don’t want everyone knowing I’m still alive!”

“Oh, so it’s still a secret, is it?” John asks sarcastically. “How generous of you to let me in to it – with a delay of, oh, a mere two years!

“Yes! It _is_ still a secret,” Sherlock replies, irritated, then he tries for levity again. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“Swear to God!” John is clearly not buying the levity. “So, which circumstance do I owe the honour of you finally coming to your senses and telling me the truth? Cause I don’t believe in coincidences… not when _you_ are involved. You never do anything without a hidden agenda. Neither of you bloody Holmeses does.”

Ianto briefly considers being offended by that comment, but then chooses not to. Firstly because he isn’t your average Holmes – he doesn’t believe in genetics being stronger than education and the wholesome influence of a simple, loving family – and secondly because Dr Watson is right. Holmeses do things if those things serve their purposes and for no other reason. 

He’s curious, though, what his uncle is going to say in order to win the doctor over again.

“London is in danger, John,” Sherlock begins in a low, intense voice. “There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help.”

“ _My_ help?” John shakes his head in amazement before turning to Toshiko. “Can you believe the bloody _nerve_ of him?”

Toshiko shrugs. “Sure. He’s a Holmes, after all; and he thinks everyone else exists for the sole purpose of helping him. That’s what Holmeses _do_.”

She steals an apologetic look at Ianto. A look that says _present company excluded, of course_ , and Ianto makes a tiny nod of acknowledgement, as it’s certainly true for the older generation of Holmeses who were raised to be Holmeses, including his father.

 _Especially_ his father.

John, in the meantime, has turned back to Sherlock. “ _My_ help?” he repeats, half-laughing in disbelief.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he deduces John’s genuine reaction to his request, then he smiles. “You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world...”

That last sentence was clearly the wrong thing to do. Ianto winces as he sees Toshiko becoming stark white. John sees it, too, and it’s enough for his simmering anger to break to the surface again. He grabs Sherlock’s lapels, rears his head back and then head-butts his best friend with brutal force.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As accommodating as Mr Chatterjee is to his special customers, he doesn’t condone bloodshed in his shop, so they get thrown out of _Speedy’s_ , too. Ianto arranges a car to take Toshiko and John back to Queen Anne Street, the small flat they’ve been sharing for the best part of the last year, and they are now waiting a few yards up the road.

Sherlock stands just outside the door with his head tilted back a little. Blood is running from his nose.

“I don’t understand,” he says nasally. He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and holds a paper napkin underneath. “I _said_ I’m sorry. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

Ianto shakes his head tolerantly. His uncle is really as clueless as a child sometimes. He could almost feel sorry for him.

“You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?”

Sherlock lowers his head and looks at him. They are of eye level, as Ianto has his height from his father and is actually an inch or two taller than his uncle.

“Mmm, nature?” Sherlock pretends to consider the question. “No. Human?... No.”

He obviously, honestly doesn’t have a clue why the big reunion has gone so completely wrong. Ianto suppresses a sigh. He’ll have to run interference again, first talking Toshiko around and then, with her help, trying to smooth John’s feathers. Because John _is_ Sherlock’s lifeline, and it’s crucial to reconcile the two with each other.

“Why don’t you go up to 221B and have some rest, sir?” he suggests. “I’ll see that Doctors Sato and Watson get home safely. Let them digest the shock first. I’m sure they’ll come around – both of them – given enough time.”

“You’re sure about that?” his uncle sounds strangely vulnerable, and once again Ianto feels sorry for him.

“I see what I can do to talk them round; especially Dr Watson,” he promises.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why would you want to do that?”

Ianto shrugs. “All part of the service, sir. My job, right now, is to help you get your footing back; and I pride myself of doing my job well, under any circumstances.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
But he feels a lot less optimistic when he sits in Mycroft’s private office in the _Diogenes Club_ on the next day, discussing strategies with his father… who doesn’t seem particularly happy, either.

“So, Sherlock’s big reunion scene was the disaster we’ve expected,” Mycroft sighs, stirring listlessly the perfect cup of tea served him by Wilf, his old valet.

Ianto nods. “I’m afraid your brother doesn’t understand the concept of subtlety, sir,” he replies. “An elephant in a china shop is nothing compared with him.”

“And that at a time when we need him at his best,” Mycroft feels too tired to even frown. “Is there any way to soften Dr Watson’s disposition towards Sherlock?”

“Perhaps,” Ianto has been thinking about the problem half the night and thinks he’s come up with a solution. “Right now, he feels betrayed because Sherlock seemingly didn’t trust him enough to involve in his scheme, while a lot of outsiders obviously know. If we give him an acceptable reason why I of all people was involved, it might help.”

“You mean revealing your identity?” Now Mycroft _does_ frown. “Would that be an acceptable risk, under the circumstances?”

Ianto shrugs. There’s _always_ a risk when one’s related to the Holmes family, and he’s come to terms with that irreversible fact.

“Dr Sato knows already,” he points out. “If we tell Dr Watson, too, at lest there’ll be one less fact she has to keep from him. It would do them well; especially if Dr Watson finally gets his act together and actually asks her.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allows. “ _If_ we decide to allow this marriage to happen.”

Ianto gives his father a hard look. This is one topic – manipulating other people’s lives just because they can – that he and Mycroft frequently argue about… and rarely come to an understanding.

“It’s hardly our right to interfere, sir,” he says coolly. “John Watson is a person of his own, with the right of living his life as he pleases. He’s not some sort of extension of Sherlock; nor is he his pet. And frankly, Sherlock has lost his right to object when he left and let the man grieve for two years. He should be grateful that Toshiko was there to catch John when he was falling… metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Yes, but Sherlock is back now,” Mycroft says, as if _that_ would explain everything.

In his twisted opinion, it perhaps does. But not in Ianto’s. Never in Ianto’s.

“So what?” Ianto counters angrily. “Does that mean Toshiko should move out of his way, just like that? Give up the man she’s come to love cos she’s no longer needed to support John? We’re talking about _people_ , sir; about living, feeling human beings, not about chess pieces. And don’t tell me there isn’t a difference in your eyes, cos I know better.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Mycroft says uncomfortably; he knows Ianto is right. There are people he cares about, people whose loss he still mourns, whether he’s willing to admit or not.

“I have to, to make you listen,” Ianto replies. “Toshiko doesn’t deserve to be treated like that. Yes, she made a grave error in the past, but she’d paid the price – tenfold, actually, and she’s still paying it, in a manner. She’s been useful for you; more useful than most people working for you, with the possible exception of Anthea, but she’s not a machine. Let her have something to draw strength from. Besides, she’s good for Dr Watson.”

“But she’s in Sherlock’s way,” Mycroft says uncompromisingly; the steel now clearly showing through his genial mask. Ianto shakes his head.

“No, she isn’t. She can actually tolerate Sherlock; has done so long enough and will continue doing so, unless you corner her and force her to some extreme reaction. And if you believe that losing her would make Dr Watson automatically return to Sherlock, then you’re even more clueless about human nature than your brother.”

It’s a rare thing to see Mycroft’s anger flash; and it isn’t a pleasant sight. But Ianto is a Holmes, too; plus he’s Welsh and accordingly stubborn.

“What gives you the illusion that you can talk me like that, my boy?” Mycroft asks in a soft, even voice that makes hardened MI6 agents quake in their boots.

Ianto doesn’t even blink.

“Spare the intimidation efforts, _Father_ ,” he says, with emphasis on the rarely used title. “You know they don’t work on me. I may not have been raised as a Holmes, but I’ve inherited the ruthless gene and won’t hesitate to use it if I have to.”

“Are you threatening me?” Mycroft laughs incredulously.

Ianto shakes his head again. “Oh, no; I know that wouldn’t work on you, either. I’m giving you an ultimatum, though: either you leave John and Toshiko alone to figure out what they actually want from each other and give it a try – or I’ll leave.”

“And go _where_?” Mycroft asks with a disdainful snort.

Ianto shrugs. “I don’t know. Back to Cardiff perhaps. I can always open a coffee shop or something.”

“And you think I’ll just let you go?” Mycroft’s tone gains that threatening edge again.

Ianto actually laughs in his face.

“Do you think you can keep me here by force? Oh, you can have me kidnapped and thrown into some secret government prison, of course, but would you truly _have_ me that way? I’m your only son, and unless you go for in-vitro fertilization and surrogate mothers, you won’t have any other children in the future, either. You _need_ me; if only to satisfy Lady Violet’s need for a grandson.”

That has hurt, he can see it, and he’s even sorry, to a certain extent. But he cannot, with good conscience, allow his father to destroy Toshiko, a brilliant, beautiful woman who’s already suffered enough, just to make sure that Sherlock won’t be alone.

Sherlock’s a grown man. If he wants to have John back, he’ll have to learn to share.

“Why do you always have to fight so dirty?” Mycroft murmurs, surrender obvious in his voice.

He _will_ give in, like he always does in the rare occasions when Ianto puts his foot down, because he _needs_ his only son. And not only to pacify his imperious mother, although this is a fact he won’t admit, not even to himself. _That_ would be a weakness, and Mycroft Holmes cannot afford any weaknesses.

“Because even goldfish have the right to a life,” Ianto replies, much gentler now that he knows he’s won. “And because you’re better than that. You just have to allow yourself to be merciful every now and then.”

~The End – for now~


End file.
